


Get A Clue

by elffyness



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Death but it's fine, Clue AU, F/M, Love Triangle, Multi, Not Toxic, but tasteful, debauchery mentions and...... nvm, no one important - Freeform, recent break up, some murder, way too much sexual tension with sebastian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25566952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elffyness/pseuds/elffyness
Summary: Set after Offered and Lost, Helena Hawke receives an invitation to a dinner party hosted by her dear friend and storyteller, Varric Tethras. Still reeling from her recent break up with Fenris, and dealing with confusing feelings for her favorite archer, she is convinced to attend, joining him and the Viscount in what was supposed to be a pleasant evening filled with fine dining, Wicked Grace, and socialite gossip. That is until someone decided to poison the Viscount...A CLUE AU! Lighthearted humor and drama to indulge in some good old fashioned romantic tension between your ex-boyfriend and your princely companion.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Sebastian Vael, Fenris/Female Hawke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Get A Clue

“Andraste’s holy pyre, this place really is in the middle of nowhere isn’t it?”

The goosebumps on Helena’s skin were rigid under her fingertips, exposed by the strapless formal dress. Cawing crows were typical of the coast, but today it was like they sensed the three overdressed outsiders encroaching upon the building on the hill.

Resting only 50 feet away from a sheer cliff side, the mansion was unlike those in Kirkwall, spread out where Helena’s own estate had been cramped into apartment-like structures. Where she was used to seeing inlaid statues and cool stone walls, the Tethras’ mansion utilized more traditional forms of masonry, dark bricks appearing gray under the overcast sky. Pointed roofs decored with iron railings and dirt-stained windows gave the property an eerie feeling, reminding Helena of a decrepit graveyard, despite the well-kept garden and warm glow protruding from inside. Then again, it was located just beneath Sundermount, the spirit-infested mountain towering over the three of them as they made their way up the gravel roundabout.

“What a spooky place to live!” Merrill chimed, bending here and there to get a closer look at the shrubbery lining the drive. From time to time, a stray rock flew in the air, courtesy of her flat shoes, clouds of dust snaking out with each step. Rather than her typical Dalish garb, she sported a forest green dress, tailored straight from Hightown. It was strange to see her dressing so light, and if not for the sheer shawl crunching against her folded arms, Helena might not have believed that she too was dressed for a sociable dinner, rather than the typical alley brawl.

“Spooky is right. I’m surprised Varric would have a place all the way out here. I thought he squatted in the Hanged Man like the rest of us. ” Isabela said, flicking a stray curl off her shoulder. The ex-pirate swaggered in her high heels, the train of her slip dancing as the cool wind whipped her hair. Velvet purple suited her, charmeuse shimmering against her skin. 

"You mean like you?" Helena asked, catching sight of Isabela's tongue for her jest.

The powerful mage shivered in the cold while the roaring sea seemed to lick up the weathered sides of the cliff. Bits of moisture coated the lawn and house like a thin braid of beads, and she swiped away the droplets that came to a rest on her high cheeks. 

“He claims it’s one of Bartrand’s forgotten properties,” Helena said, accepting Isabela’s outstretched arm as the trio made their way up the front stairs of the porch. Beside her, Isabela frowned.

"Maybe it should've stayed that way then."

Though beautiful in design, there was something forlorn about the chipped paint on the railways, its splinters whispering of better days. The unsettling creak of each stair was enough to make her feel like she was reading one of Varric’s trashed novellas. It wouldn’t have surprised her to see a mysterious shadow flit by the window.

Helena shook her head, returning back to the conversation as the three of them stood on the porch. 

“I suppose a giant mansion like this is ideal for entertaining the Viscount. He probably has tens of things just like this one all over Kirkwall.” 

Isabela had taken to assessing the exterior as well, her sour expression indicating that she had come to a distasteful opinion of the place.

“Well, he can keep them." A finger swipe against the rail returned black dust and she waved it off with a sneer.

"Have you guys met the Viscount before?" Merrill asked, a pensive scrunch marring the vallaslin that curled around her brows. 

"I have. He's a peach." Helena waved her hand at Merrill's pursed lips. "Human expression." 

"Oooh, well aren't we lucky. The seven of us, getting to meet the Viscount. Kirkwall’s most illustrious band of troublemakers.”

A dry laugh escaped Helena.

“Illustrious to whom? The mercenary artist drawing our wanted posters?” 

The three of them burst into giggles causing that strange feeling of foreignness to slip from Helena’s chest.

Despite being outfitted in the fabrics and glamour of high town, they were still the same motley group that slummed in Kirkwall’s best (fine, worst) tavern. 

A smile graced Helena’s sharp lips as Merrill’s body barrelled into her chest with a last-minute hug. 

Yes, perhaps things would be okay. 

One fancy dinner with the viscount wouldn’t kill anybody. 

With a heavy hand, she pressed the doorbell, grooves inlaying the House Tethras sigil on her thumb. Helena swiped her fingers over it, not liking the sweat that wicked off. 

Chimes resounded from within, along with a distant laugh that, if she strained her ears hard enough, could be identified as Varric’s. Approaching footsteps led her to believe that’s who she would see as well, but as the dark wood shifted from its ancient locks, she came face to face with a young woman. Her bright blue eyes blinked at the three of them, a welcome grin on her face.

“Welcome to House Tethras, messeres,” she said, a low, sultry timber distinguishing her voice. She gave them a slight bow which, though bewildered, Helena reciprocated without much thought.

“My name is Eden, but you can call me Lady Parks. I manage this property for Ser Tethras.” 

Looking the woman up and down, it was clear she couldn’t have just been a property caretaker; not if her languid stance had anything to say about it. Regardless, Helena was not in the business of questioning beautiful women at random, so she tightened her lips in a polite smile.

“Helena,” she replied, noting the lack of change on Lady Parks’ face before continuing, “Hawke.” 

Her eyes widened half a fraction at that.

“These are my friends, Isabela and Merrill. I believe Varric is expecting us,”

As if on cue, and it probably was, the dwarf ambled his way over, looking quite the gentleman in his dark collared suit. Spiraled embroidery twisted its way up his lapels, and his left hand swung a glass of scotch, the ice cubes making a jingling sound as he approached them with a wide smile.

“Ladies! Welcome to Casa Tethras! Come on in, make yourselves at home.” 

Varric was the spitting image of a Hightown bachelor, sigiled rings shining in the glow of the sparkling chandelier. He spared no cliche, going so far as to unbutton his shirt to what was practically his navel. Helena snorted at her friend, crooking an eyebrow at his over the top performance.

“I see you’ve met the lovely Lady Parks,” Varric said with a wink towards the woman, who blushed lightly at his attention. 

_Maker, Varric._

Helena decided this would be none of her business, focusing her vision on her surroundings instead.

“All this? Just for the Viscount?” She asked, waving her hand to indicate the room around them. It was as if Orlesian luxury made off with Ferelden hardiness. Dark oak panels covered every inch of the walls, decorated with gilded frames of distinguished Free Marcher heroes and countryside. A sixteen tiered chandelier (Helena was positive it was taller than the Arishok), supported what must have been more than a hundred candles, sending light bouncing through the crystals that hung from its golden frame. This coincided with the crushed red carpet beneath them, which cascaded down from a marvelous center staircase, complete with busts on either side of the railing.

In short, it was just about the most ostentatious house she had ever stepped foot in. Varric brushed her off, looking around the foyer with pride.

“What can I say? A special occasion deserves some pizazz.”

“And what’s the special occasion?”

The dwarf frowned at her now, their height difference exacerbated by Helena’s high heels making the scene comical to any onlooker. 

“Come on Ice Queen, you quelled what could have become a full-blown religious uprising! Give yourself some credit.” She must have looked unconvinced, because he instantly tacked on “the Viscount sure does.”

Helena huffed, sending a strand of her black hair flying. Protesting, which she was inclined to do, would have only acted as further ammunition to Varric’s ridiculous argument that she was ‘too serious all the time’. His golden eyes peered at her now, ready to counter her oncoming objections. Not this time dwarf. 

A simple shrug lifted her shoulders as she averted her eyes from his accosting stare.

“I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to decorate a mansion with more gold than the Chantry.”

Isabela seemed inclined to agree, and Helena felt her weave past to trail her bejeweled fingers along the arm of a shining suit of armor. Apparently the interior of the house was performing much better to her standards than the decrepit exterior.

“Well hellooo handsome,” she whistled to herself, prompting a giggle from Merrill. Her finely done eyebrows were raised in their direction as she leaned her face against cold steel. "You mind if I take this knight for a private ride?" Varric rolled his eyes.

“At least wait until the party’s over before you start stealing things, Rivaini.” At that, he gave Lady Parks a playful nudge, along with a bouquet of assurances that he was just kidding. The grimace he shot Helena said otherwise.

“Why don’t you ladies come into the parlor. Most of the gang’s already here, and yes, Choir boy does look hilarious, so I am expecting you to take your best shots,” Varric said, his voice echoing as he began to lead the way down the hall. Lady Parks sauntered after him, the two creating a lovely mix of maroon and purple before disappearing into the next room. 

A smirk ticked at the corner of Helena’s mouth.

“Parlor,” she scoffed, teasing light giggles out of the threesome as they headed in.

The click of their heels on the marble below were satisfying, in spite of Helena’s still awkward gait. It wasn’t often she had welcomed an opportunity to wear the fragile little things, and the red stilettos that she sported now had to be dug out of a chest of untouched knickknacks. They had just been one in the pile of things that were reluctantly brought along from Lothering. Mother was overjoyed, of course, to see her little girl stomping around in something other than muddied boots and old robes.

She scrunched her nose in distaste, before stopping and looking around.

No one noticed. 

Good.

Returning to her surroundings, Helena ran her eyes over the various portraits and sculptures that lined the hallway as she walked, careful with her pace. She marveled at the exquisite craftsmanship on the walls, the hours of labor shining through. 

“I’ve never seen so much wood that wasn’t on a tree before,” Merrill’s delicate voice echoed, distant behind Helena. Knocking sounds soon followed.

The parlor proved to be even more elaborate than the entryway, this time being covered in plump, claw-footed couches of gold and white embroidery. Cabinets of finery lined the wall and a small game table was set behind the inward facing couches, along with several bookshelves. To top it all off, vases of elaborate feathers and flowers lined every spare surface, making it difficult to see into the room. She wouldn’t be surprised if Grandma Tethras herself had furnished the place with her own Great Grandmother’s furniture.

She repressed the urge to sneeze from imagined dust, despite the room’s immaculate state.

“Wow, Varric, this is… er...” Helena started, pulling at the sheer shawl around her. Her black hair came with it, cascading over her shoulders and leaving her back bare to the cool.

“...kind of horrifying,” she finished, her grimace melting into a fond smile. It seemed to be the right call, as Varric threw a cheesy wink her way. 

The moment was driven away by a certain rugged voice, unmistakable in its Starkhaven accent.

“Helena! You made it!” 

She began to turn, not liking the smirk that Varric sprouted at the greeting. Before she could see him though, she felt his warm hand on her back guiding her the rest of the way. Wide and coming to rest momentarily on her waist before withdrawing, Sebastian’s cerulean eyes welcomed her, aglow against his smooth sepia skin. Before she could open her mouth to respond, hair filled her vision. He took her hand gently in his own and placed a single kiss on her knuckles. In the brief second his lips brushed her skin, electricity ran through her body and sent a surge of warmth to her cheeks. Briefly, she wondered if that had been a flare of her own magic, or something more intimate.

Arse, she hoped that those ugly yellow lamps were ancient enough to hide her blush.

Fingers trembled as she folded them over her chest. 

“Maker, Sebastian, you don’t have to be so formal, it’s just me!”

Her brows knit together while her eyes shot to the surrounding walls, red glazing her face like it was her fourth mug of ale.

Sebastian seemed to laugh- maddeningly, might she add-as he turned away from her, the twinkle in his eye failing to escape her gaze. Making his way over to Isabela, who happily thrust her own hand out for a kiss of her own, he threw Helena another one of his charming grins that could only serve as evidence of his princely ties. 

“What can I say?” he asked, mid lean, “Royal obligations with my family could be tedious, but I did enjoy the parties.” 

Helena made an mhm sound, the retreating tenseness of the moment creating a pleasant hum in her body. She had just managed to relax her arms a fraction before her breath caught in her throat, and they tightened up once again.

“Is that…” she whispered, as Varric came up to stand beside her with a snicker.

“I told you he looked hilarious,”

Sebastian was chatting with Merrill, but all she could see were his muscular calves, revealed by a fully outfitted red kilt. Helena quickly cleared the lump in her throat as Isabela pointed at it from behind him, making a variety of comical faces at her.

“Right… hilarious,”

Varric caught her reaction, elbowing her with a grin as he gestured towards the couch.

“The Viscount will be here soon, why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

His words were like music to her ears and a literal bandage to the forming blisters on her feet. Looking to her friends, the threesome seemed content to continue their bubbly conversation about… well, who knows what, so Helena took it upon herself to sit first, skirting her way around the ridiculous plumage that shielded her view of the couches. It was decorative to the point of obstruction, rendering it impossible to tell who was sitting inside the makeshift alcove… which only came to bite her in the arse when her eyes immediately met the deep green of Fenris. 

Like an august ram caught in the torchlight, she froze, the warmth of her previous interactions vanishing and leaving her with a hollow slate of feigned neutrality. Her heart pounded wildly, and without her armor, she was certain he could see its imprint trying to break free of her ribcage. 

It was hesitant. 

His gaze, that is. No more than hers, but enough to make that second stretch into an eternity. Helena wouldn’t be the first to traverse the fragile bridge between them, not with the treacherous water lurching below. In a blink, she mustered up a weak smile which pained her less than she had braced herself for. 

“Hey,” she greeted, a chuckle in her chords. Another second ticked past where Fenris filled her vision, the world falling short outside of that. Bent over on the couch, a glass of wine cradled in his hand, and fitted in a tough high collared gray vest and loose billowing sleeves, Fenris was the spitting image of grace and society; his face betraying as little as a porcelain mask.

To anyone but them it would seem he was staring right past her; But Helena knew him. The flicks of his eyes, the subtle bob in his throat when he swallowed conveyed more than his words ever would. Her stomach fluttered remembering the last time he had gazed at her that way and the pressure of a solid wall against her back. 

Before her thoughts could continue further, Fenris rose, a playful shine to him as he bowed to her.

“Lady Hawke, what a surprise,” his deep timbres rang out, their familiarity washing warmth down her shoulders. For a moment, Helena remembered them in the form of whispered worship, a forehead against hers, hope on the tip of her tongue.

She blinked, finding herself on a lavish carpet rather than a cool mattress with a thumb against her lips.

Noting the subtle tenseness in his posture, she smiled, careful with her expression as he rose from his bow. Responding with a curtsy, Helena approached him with caution.

“Messere Fenris,” she copied, eye contact unwavering, “Fancy meeting you here.” The smile he responded with was worth millions, sending butterflies into flight where she knew they should’ve been caged away. 

Fenris seemed to take in her attire now, brief and reluctant in his gaze. Color came to life in the form of rose undertones, an unfamiliar show of awkwardness in the man who had always been so witty and charming in their earlier days. It was hard to forget the devotion that once burned in his eyes when she could still glimpse the flames licking inside. They threatened to burst from their prison, but she knew better. 

Fenris was stronger than that.

“You…" a pause, "look beautiful...” he uttered, before a visible wince revealed a switch had flipped in his head, “my friend.” 

Helena just barely caught her cringe.

_Ah. It never hurt any less._

Whatever she had planned on saying next was interrupted by a throat clear originating from the opposite couch. She whipped her head around, meeting the mischievous, albeit bored scrutiny of Anders. Slouched against the couch, he had loosened the ascot around his neck and swirled a glass of scotch in his delicate hands, suited for the minute work of healing and magic he performed daily.

“Hi Helena, I’m here too,” he drawled, creating a look of annoyance on her face. She kicked his ankle without warning, reveling in the satisfaction and drawing what sounded like a muffled laugh behind her. Whining, Anders writhed around the couch in a series of playful dramatics.

“Ha, ha, you’re so funny Anders,” she responded dryly, doing her best to focus her attention on him, rather than the elf standing next to her. 

“Be careful the next time you attack me, or Justice might get the wrong idea,” the mage groaned, scooting over to offer her a seat on the plush couch. 

Helena paused in consideration before acquiescing to the silent proposal. The tenseness of the previous moment had not left her, and when she finally settled in the chair and looked back across the seats, Fenris had returned to his bent position, staring out the window instead of looking at the two of them.

“Helena, where was my curtsy?” Isabela sang as she sauntered into the alcove, Merrill and Sebastian in tow. Her dark eyes rolled as Anders snickered beside her. Of course she was eavesdropping. 

As Helena’s companions filled up the parlor, bringing with them conversation that would make a lay sister blush, she found herself staring through the paned windows gridding the front of the room. They interrupted the fleur de lis pattern which wrapped the walls, providing a glimpse out into the storm that had picked up since they arrived. Raindrops distorted the landscape, reminding Helena to stop staring at the scenery and focus her attention inside where everything made sense.

Her dark brown eyes lingered once again on Fenris, who had taken to conversing with Sebastian about the best mix for armor polish. A laugh was shared between them as the archer whispered something alongside an odd gesture, and Helena couldn’t deny the way her palms slicked at the sound.

A quiet sigh passed her lips.

Well. Where _most_ things made sense.

Rather than be antisocial, Helena decided to reenter the conversation as gold-rimmed glasses of various concoctions were served by Lady Parks. 

The evening waned and the grand clock struck 6:00, its dolls foggy in Helena’s mind. It wasn’t hard to notice the effect of inebriation on certain members of the group. Merrill in particular sported a bright pink glow as she worked her way down her first glass of champagne. Anders was certainly on his third, and Helena even had the bruised ribs to prove it. The glares she had sent his way seemed to go unnoticed.

The viscount couldn’t have arrived sooner, his entrance interrupting a slightly drunken game of charades. The sound of the doorbell coincided with the final grain slipping down the hourglass, saving them from Varric’s terrible reenactment of Bartrand leaving them for dead in the deep roads. 

“Gah, the word is betrayal! How could you guys not guess that?” he shouted, waving his hands in disbelief. Helena let out an uncharacteristic laugh as Anders gestured in loose confusion to the dwarf making his way to the foyer.

“I’m sorry, how on Andraste’s green Earth were we supposed to guess ‘Betrayal,’ from you pushing something and laying on the ground writhing?” she drawled, louder from the bubbles and uncaring of the pair of eyes scouring her reddening skin. 

“Oh like you’re such a good actor yourself Ice Queen,” his voice rang out. 

The group had collapsed into their own fit of reactions, whether laughs or retorts, as Lady Parks began to collect the various glasses. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Merrill, in her tipsy state, trying to get up and help collect the cups, only to be pulled back down by Isabela with a laugh. 

“I think we need to get Kitten some water,” she sang.

“Kaffas, you only had the one glass,” 

The woman pressed her fingers to her vallaslin, as if doing so would stop her world from spinning. 

“I don’t know what happened! I used to outlast the entire clan during Arlathan! Varric must have given us very strong champagne.” 

Isabela took over, rubbing her temples for her as she chuckled. 

“It’s more likely we’ve gotten too used to the swill at the Hanged Man. It takes forever to get drunk on those mugs of piss.”

Heads turned to Helena, who would have been content to let the group do whatever they liked, for advice. Of course, the unofficial truth was that she had assumed a role as de facto leader of this merry band of murderers. Screwing her nose and flexing her fingers, Helena tried to feel the stream of alcohol in her body. The tips of her fingers tingled with bubbles, but the rest of her body appeared to retain its athletic prowess. At least, reflexively. She looked up at the group around her.

“I’m still sober, but you’re probably right. Lay off on the booze for a while, especially you Merrill. Let’s not get ourselves banished from Kirkwall by performing drunken gymnastics in front of the Viscount.”

Jingling rang out across the parlor, accompanied by the entrance of a short and familiar face. Bodahn looked better than ever, dressed in trappings equal to those found in Orzammar’s Diamond Quarter.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your dinner is ready. I have been instructed by Messere Tethras to tell you that you are to enter the dining room first. He will soon join you with Lady Aveline, Viscount Dumar, and his assistant.”

He gracefully bowed, smiling back at Helena’s nod. Ever since their move to Hightown, his presence in the estate, along with Sandal of course, had made the place feel a lot more like home. Helena was glad the pair had agreed to help Varric with his dinner. Seeing him here cloaked her in warmth, a reassuring presence in a foreign place. 

“If you’ll all follow me, I will be escorting you into the dining hall.”

Everyone began to rise now, Isabela leading the charge and Merrill sticking close behind her. Anders rushed off as well, presumably due to the hunger that an empty stomach full of alcohol was wont to produce. Content to wait out the herd, Helena remained seated until Sebastian, (the last person of course) had stood, evidently waiting on her as he crooked a thick eyebrow in her direction.

Indifferent to who was last, she stood, nonchalant. 

Or at least, that’s what she intended to do. 

As Helena’s weight shifted to her feet, her typically well-calculated movements fell short, failing to account for two crucial factors: One, that she was quite tipsier than she realized, and two, stilettos.

She stumbled, the carpet soaring towards her at a breathtaking speed, dastardly red print filling her vision. Helena clenched her teeth, bracing herself for the inevitable impact. In a twist of cruel fate, though, her knees and face managed to be saved from a brutal collision with the ground by a lean and powerful pair of hands pulling her body to safety. Instead of the floor, Helena felt her cheek pressed against Sebastian's jaw, the hollows of his face curving into hers, adrenaline making her heart leap into her throat and pound at her eardrums. 

His breath ghosted by the shell of her ear. 

Helena’s eyelashes fluttered in her vision as she attempted to process what just happened. Sebastian had caught her mid trip and was now clutching her tight to his body. The breath died in her throat. Within seconds, and as if a fire tore up the seam where their bodies met, Helena shoved herself off the Starkhaven prince, her fingers singed.

Balance seemed even harder to catch now, but she managed, driven by her determination to avoid looking absurd. Helena straightened promptly and tamped down the urge to avert her gaze, instead, making burning eye contact with the man. A huff escaped her.

“Thank you.” 

Sebastian smiled, a hand smoothing the length of his clothes.

“Any time, Helena.”

With a stiff and all too serious nod, Helena began to head off once again in the direction of the dining room, this time focused on maintaining her walk. Sebastian’s chuckle trailed behind her.

“Sober, eh?”

She stiffened but refused to give him the satisfaction of turning back.

The nonchalant whistle that followed let her know she failed.

****

The dining room was no less ornamented than the rest of the mansion, following the suit and styles of dark wood and gilded art. A long table sat in the center, swathed in an elegant train of cloth which tickled Helena’s forearms. In front of her was an appetizing bowl of hot soup, the clear broth featuring bits of tender chicken breast and creamy mushroom. Under the table, she flexed her fingers. Her desire to dig into the starting course was delayed by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Without warning, the door burst open accompanied by Varric’s “Dun-du-na-na!” 

Standing behind him was Viscount Dumar, dressed in less formal clothes than Helena had last seen him in. He was looking worse for the wear, his once bright eyes dulled against the first hints of wrinkles. 

_Running a city does that to you._

There was a lull before Helena realized the group was waiting for her to say something. As the unanimous leader, she rose, her neck stiff as she bowed.

“Viscount Dumar… it’s a…” she paused, twisting words on her tongue, “...pleasure to have you join us." Varric's facial expression urged her to continue. "We're truly honored to be in your service and enjoy your company on this fine evening."

The viscount gave a tired sigh, a weak smile appearing on his face.

“Without you, I might have lost my position. The least I can do is join you for dinner.”

A hearty laugh sounded, Varric being the source, as he slung an arm around the Viscount’s shoulders.

“Oh, cheer up Marlowe! This is a celebration! Kick your feet up, have some wine, and try to forget about how your city was nearly torn apart.”

 _Marlowe,_ or the Viscount, laughed morosely, led to the head of the table by the dwarf as they conversed. Helena scoffed in disbelief, folding her arms as she sat back down. 

She didn’t know when he and Varric had gotten so close, but then again, he was always full of surprises. 

Trailing after the pair was the group’s favorite official to terrorize, his face scrunching as he scrutinized the name tents at each seat. Isabela’s face lit up as the Seneschal sat next to her, his lip curling as he picked the cloth napkin that seemed to disappoint him.

“Linen... How crude.” 

Helena muffled her laugh as Isabela wiggled her eyebrows at Bran, her face neatly supported by her gold ringed fingers. In fact, she was so enmeshed in watching the outcome of their conversation that she almost missed the harsh scrape of a chair one seat over.

Aveline looked irritated. It appeared the storm had caught her on her journey up, pestering her normally tame hair into frizzing curls. 

Nudging Sebastian to lean back with her shoulder, Helena scooted towards her, a mischievous tilt to her smile.

“How was the ride up Ser Aveline?” she whispered.

A frown twisted her companion’s freckled face as she leaned towards Helena.

“Not as glamorous as one might expect. Apparently being the personal bodyguard of the Viscount comes with the privilege of riding out in the rain rather than inside the carriage.”

As if to punctuate her statement, a droplet trickled down her cheek, causing Helena to chuckle at Aveline’s less than appropriate level of anger.

“Now, now Aveline, save that frustration for the host of assassins waiting for you around the corner.”

The guard left her with one final look of bemusement before Sebastian’s increasingly forced throat clears sent them back to their respective chairs.

Helena readjusted in her seat, her eyes sliding towards Fenris, who had been observing the interaction, on her left. Even in her peripheral, she could sense his smirk, provoking her heart into rapid fire beats once again. Without thought she turned to him, pillowing her chin on her hands and smiled, deepening the dimples in her skin. Her brow rose in a silent challenge.

“Something on your mind?”

His expression changed, the twitch of his dark brows, the tiniest flutter in his eyes.

“Someone.”

Helena’s breath hitched in her throat. It had always been an easy game between them, not unlike the matches they played in the shaded garden behind the estate. It only took another second for her to recall that those games now collected dust in a cupboard.

Once she had managed to remember what had transpired between them no more than a week ago, it was too late. The ringing of glass from the head of the table called her attention, leaving her with one final image of Fenris’ lips edging ever upwards.

Varric had risen from his seat, a drink in his hand as he raised a glass. 

“Well, now that we’ve all made it, I’d like to propose a toast!”

“Wonderful,” Isabela muttered but set her utensils down anyways. 

A stern glare was sent in her direction by the storyteller before he cleared his throat and raised his glass once again.

“As I was saying,” he emphasized, “A toast. To the defeat of the qunari threat, and to escaping with all of our hides still intact.”

‘Here here’s’ rounded the table as Helena clinked her glass against Sebastian and Fenris’. The contents of the drink were warm, and as she sipped, she caught the gaze of Lady Parks. Her dark red lips, which had been turned up in warm amusement the whole night, were puckered, a sour frown on her face. Helena hesitated to say something, her cup held halfway to her mouth as she watched a disturbing flame burn silently in those crisp blues. It seemed Merrill had no such qualms, a spoonful of soup in her mouth as she spotted the grave expression on Lady Park’s face.

“Oooh, Lady Parks, is everything okay?”

The scrape of her spoon against the bowl indicated that she hadn’t expected the sudden intrusion.

“Err-- just dandy, thank you.”

“Oh, because you had a broody expression on your face when Varric mentioned the qunari.”

“I wouldn’t call it broody.”

Merrill didn’t take the hint, pursing her lips as she looked up in thought.

“Mm. No it was broody. Like when Fenris broke up with Hel---”

An explosive cough sounded off next to Helena and she fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. In a desperate attempt to change the subject, Helena cleared her throat, sending a pleading face in the mage’s direction. The sweet elf made an ‘oops’ face, before waving her hand in erratic patterns to brush away the subject.

“I mean. I know brooding that’s all.” Lady Parks eyed her with distrust, a tight smile on her face as she attempted to return to her soup. Insistent on getting an answer, however, Merrill continued.

“Aren’t you glad we saved the city from a qunari revolt?”

That seemed to do it and Lady parks jaw clenched as she threw down her spoon in exasperation.

“The qunari are no threat to us,” she ground out, the pinch of her forehead elongating her sneer, “It’s not their fault the Viscount would rather cover his tracks than attend to the true zealots tearing apart Kirkwall.” The table conversation dissipating into a hush at her escalating voice, the atmosphere stretching thin with tension. Helena swallowed, goosebumps prickling her flesh at the frightening look in Lady Parks' eyes. 

My, if looks could kill.

From beside her, Varric reached out his hand, intending to comfort her distress. Instead, she yanked her own away. An apologetic look passed between them before she mumbled a hurried ‘excuse me’ and ran out of the room. 

Varric chuckled awkwardly, a strain to his chords as he smiled.

“Sorry about that Marlowe, she’s probably just a little tense from the conflicts, that’s all.”

The Viscount, to his credit, waved it off, his wrinkles appearing to sink further into his skin.;

“It’s no matter. I can’t please everyone in this city,” he grumbled.

The dismissive nature of his statement eased the tension a bit, and Helena sent a sympathetic look in Merrill’s direction. It seemed Isabela had a handle on the situation, however, her comforting arm tight around the elf’s frail shoulders as she waved off her concern.

“Go, enjoy your food,” she urged.

Reluctant, Helena acquiesced, a sigh she didn’t know she had been holding leaving her body in a thin stream. She returned to the mushroom soup in front of her that had grown cold with passing time. It suddenly looked a lot less appetizing after that outburst. 

She had been about to dig in until a soft nudge on her right pulled her attention away. Glancing at the exiled prince, Helena was confused to see that he looked as if he hadn’t touched her at all. Instead, he was engrossed in his soup, appearing to ruminate on the flavors. She was just about to sigh and turn back to her own when his eyes slid toward her, an impish smile pulling at his pretty features. 

The heart in her chest leaped as he winked at her, and she felt she had been shot full of electricity. Her stomach was still fluttering, even as he returned back to his food like nothing had passed between them.

The message was clear, however.

_I’m here for you._

****

If a week ago someone had told Helena that she would be engrossed in a game of Wicked grace with the Viscount, she might have dignified them with a laugh. Now, reality was setting in as she pretended to observe the deck in her hand. Her real targets sat around her, a roundtable of the fiercest players in Kirkwall. Across from her, Isabela fanned herself with her cards, the face of the queen of hearts peeking through. 

_An obvious trap,_ she thought to herself as her friend yawned. 

The Viscount seemed to be struggling behind them, close to chewing a hole in his cheek as his gaze scurried to the couches, where those who had either been beaten or sitting out were making easy conversation.

“Bran,” he called, the man in question visible just above the eyebrows, his face buried in a book. 

“Yes my lord?” 

“I don’t think I’m quite as good at Wicked Grace as I remember. Come here and give me a hand, before this young lady takes what’s left of my savings.” 

Bran rolled his eyes as Varric tutted. He had been giving the match his mediocre hardest, electing to play the long game rather than the short.

“Hey, just because you’re the Viscount doesn’t mean you get to cheat at Wicked Grace. This is an equal playing field.”

On Helena’s left, Fenris took objection to that, leaning back in his chair and giving the dwarf a pointed look.

“Can it truly be equal if three of you have been playing this game since you were teenagers?”

Isabela clicked her tongue, covering the little snort that escaped Helena.

“No excuses Fen,” Helena said, tossing a damning ace of spades on the green tabletop once the Viscount threw his hands up in a pass. It seemed to glimmer under the hot shine of the ceiling light, bold against the velvet. A humorous collection of hisses and boos rounded the group at the sight, the center pile of gold gleaming as it was pushed her way. Helena smiled, unable to resist a cheeky comment.

“Thank you, thank you, you’re all too kind!”

From across the table, Isabela smirked.

“I’ll say.”

Helena quirked an eyebrow at her, the murmurs of ‘good game’ and the sounds of shuffling cards fading behind her like background noise. Whatever answer she was searching for in those smoky eyes was naught to be found, save for a single wink.

_Oh no._

Helena’s fingers tapped along the edge of her new hand, anticipation brewing at what her closest confidante might be planning.

She hadn’t been the only one who noticed. Varric’s observant gaze had picked up on Isabela’s innocently pursed lips as she continued to cut and distribute the cards for the next round. There was a moment where Helena thought he wouldn’t ask, hopeful that maybe she could escape whatever shenanigan Isabela was trying to induce with her dignity intact. Alas, as the joker’s painted mask stared back at her from her brand new hand, it became obvious that that fate was not in her cards tonight.

“Alright, what is it Rivaini? I’m assuming you have a plan to spice things up a bit?” Varric sighed, a lopsided grin on his face. He had begun to rub his knuckles, a scatter of rings piled beside his mug. 

The pirate queen seemed delighted to be in the spotlight, placing her hands over her heart with a baffled look on her face.

“Why, me? How curious that you would think I had any such thing,” she feigned before switching gears. “Since you asked though, I have an idea that I think the parlor will find both tempting and exciting!”

She addressed the last bit of her statement to the group conversing in the sitting area, their heads turning at the interruption. Merrill’s eyes sparkled as she leaned over the couch to get a better look at what they were up to, leaving Anders to narrowly save the glass she had kicked from crashing to the ground. She had recovered from her earlier bout of drinks, but her face retained small patches of red pigment.

“Ooh, what kind of idea! Is it a spicy one?” 

“Maker I hope not,” Helena mumbled to herself, the blood vessels in her face threatening to expand as she recalled the already too spicy evening she had been having. One of the proponents was the man beside her, and she snuck a glance in his direction. Fenris appeared lax in his seat, watching Isabela with a mix of curiosity and wariness that left his jaw tight. Despite the absence of incidents since dinner, Helena had felt the weight of his stare cross over her more than several times throughout the card game between friends.

Perhaps it was just part of his strategy, searching for her tell.

But Fenris knew better than any that her slips weren’t anywhere near her legs.

“It is a spicy idea, kitten!” Isabela proclaimed, curls bouncing as the attention of the room fueled her performance, “And, it would provide a chance for the losers at this table, no offense Viscount, to recoup their winnings….”

Her audience waited with bated breath, the room going still as Helena tensed for the words she knew were coming.

“Stripping Grace.”

The protests were imminent, as voices from all over objected, mixed of course with those who were… enthusiastic. Fenris burst out laughing beside her rattling the table and drawing her eyes even as the world spun to chaos around her. 

“Are you joking? I’m not going to sit in my smalls next to the Viscount!”

“This isn’t appropriate,”

“I won’t allo--”

The upheaval was silenced by a piercing whistle from Isabela who came to rest with a hand on her hip.

“Why don’t we ask the Viscount what he thinks?”

Viscount Dumar had remained remarkably impassive, wearing the practiced face of royal distaste he used for most of his days in office. His finger rimmed the near empty glass in his hand, eyes looking first to Varric, then to Helena. Then, throwing back the rest of his drink, Dumar gave a half hearted shrug, his crystal eyes crinkling in a wince.

“Well, to the Void right? Not like I have much coin left in my coiffeurs anyway,” he rattled, his cup now empty. “I could use another drink for this though.”

Varric called for Lady Parks with a laugh as a chorus of mixed reactions roared to life around Helena. She watched the chaos unfold, Anders nearly spilling his drink on Sebastian, Isabela sporting a nug eating grin, before gripping her own mug in determination. Dumar was certainly right about needing more drinks, and Helena decided to follow suit in his stellar plan. The last of her drink, now room temperature, coursed down her throat, as Aveline and Sebastian’s objections about her and the Viscount’s titles deserving respect echoed in her ears. Helena steeled herself, flexing her fingers while a growing blush raged against her skin.

“Let’s play,” she said, her voice hard against the protests. 

Most of her friends seemed baffled to hear her words the room slowing as Sebastian looked on with equal surprise

“Helena, are you certain?”

Her mouth twitched as she frowned at him, tilting back in her chair.

“Why Sebastian, when did your opinion of me get so low? Of course I’m sure.” Her dark brows rose as she spoke. “Besides, I think the Viscount’s smalls would look fantastic above my fireplace.”

Helena watched as his expression of shock melted into one of humor, a flutter in her chest as she reveled in the twist of his plush lips. 

Things moved fast now, the room a whirl with activity. As everyone worked to pull the place into order, Anders and Aveline carrying the table to the center and couches arranged for easy viewing, Helena accepted a heady glass of wine from Lady Parks' outstretched tray. The bitter flavor coated her tongue and throat, heat blooming from her belly and illuminating her face. The laughter of her companions fed adrenaline into her veins, a surge pumping through as she caught Fenris’ approving glace from behind the chair in his arms.

She couldn’t help the little smile that spread on her face as she took a breath, the warmth of his eyes burned into her memory as she took a gulp from her cup.

Helena Hawke was no chicken.

If it was a match of Stripping Grace that they wanted, it was a match they would get.

****

“That’s your fifth glass of water Marlowe, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

The Viscount swallowed, his forehead shining with sweat as he picked through his cards for the fourth time.

“I’m just fine, thank you,” he muttered. By Helena’s estimations, he had been outperforming all his rounds, jaw strained as he studied his deck. Perhaps he had taken her threat to heart, and was desperate to avoid losing his smallclothes to her wall decor. In any case, the Viscount retained the majority of his clothes, his only loss being a spotted fur mantle and some jewelry.

As a matter of fact, the five of them had preserved their clothed states by removing various jewelry or overclothes; It was a lucky save. Both she and Fenris were the closest to losing a crucial article of clothing, her more so than him. Out of sight, her fingers played with the royal blue hem, a channel of nervous energy as Helena scoured her cards. If Isabela continued to press her advantage, which she seemed intent on doing, she would lose her dress within minutes.

Blinking, she glanced towards the pale faced man beside her

“Feeling a little hot Viscount Dumar? Nervous, perhaps?” Helena mused aloud, a five of clubs at the ready.

He cleared his throat, an edge to his voice despite his harried state.

“Never better… You ought to be though.”

To Helena’s dismay, the lurid red seven of clubs appeared on the felt. Clenching her fist, she fought the urge to react, swears tearing through her head as her pupils burned in Isabela’s direction.

The sneak had helped him! It was like she had made it her personal mission to reveal her body to the entire parlor.

“What happened, what was it?” 

“Oof… seven of clubs. She’s done.”

Helena tried to ignore the voices from the couch, her foot tapping as she watched Isabela’s lips twitch into an infuriating smile. Spreading the deck in her hands was futile: she was low on face cards and in numbers. She began to make peace with the inevitable, when a dark jack of diamonds slid into the centerfold, its determined eyes glaring up at those around it.

It was her saving grace and Isabela frowned at its harbinger, who stared her down with his dark green eyes. Helena’s heart skipped a beat as she realized Fenris had just saved her from certain embarrassment and ogling, putting himself at the mercy of Isabela’s oncoming attack.

And on it came. In one fell swoop her queen of spades was down, and so were the calls for Fenris to lose the shirt. Always one to lose with dignity, he acquiesced, a benign smile on his face as his lyrium veins were revealed, curling and cascading down the many twists of his wide frame.

Varric whooped and Isabela clapped while Helena looked down at her cards. Pink tinged her face, even brighter than it had been earlier in the evening. The impact of his shirt hitting the ground and squeak of a chair was her only indication of his whereabouts. Nonetheless, she nodded her silent thanks to him.

It was just like old times.

In the meanwhile, the Viscount had fallen into a coughing fit, his face turning an unnatural shade of red.

Varric frowned as the man continued.

“Uh oh… Bran?”

Dumar’s face had made the sickening transition to purple, his hands reaching for his throat as he gagged. Seneschal Bran, who had been watching the match with interest, hurried over at the sight of Dumar’s bulging eyes, followed closely by Aveline. He knelt on the ground beside him, trying to soothe the man’s fit.

“My lord? Marlowe, what’s wrong?”

“Stand down Seneschal!”

Aveline panicked, biceps flexing as she lifted him out of the chair to perform a safety maneuver.

“Maybe he’s choking on something, I’ll try to clear his airways!”

It was a sight to behold, Aveline, in an evening gown, slamming her fists against Viscount Dumar’s ribs as Seneschal Bran looked on in fear.

Isabela leaned over on the table to Fenris, a hand protecting her mouth from Aveline’s sight.

“Imagine if your stripping was so sexy you killed the Viscount.”

Fenris snickered and Helena smirked at the joke.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he replied, and Helena had to turn away as Isabela questioned the implications of his statement.

The coughing seemed to reach a crescendo, spit flying about and Dumar turning a nauseating shade of blue before it all came to a stop. The Viscount went limp in Aveline’s arms, a gasp sounding out as she let go and he tumbled to the ground.

Isabela’s eyes widened and Helena’s mouth gaped.

“No way…”

Varric shoved out of his chair, running to where Dumar lay on his belly to help Bran flip him over. His fingers quickly spread over the body, prodding the skin around Dumar’s neck before coming to a two fingered rest. It was a quiet few moments, everyone anticipating the call and processing the scene unfolding before their eyes. Ticks sounded from a lumbering grandfather clock, chronicling the seconds that passed as dread pooled in Helena’s stomach.

With a shocked shake of his head, the worst was spoken into existence.

“The Viscount is dead.”

****

“Okay, everybody quiet down!” Aveline shouted, her face marred with a scowl.

The storm raged harder than ever outside, gusts of wind banging the windows Helena had been looking out of not more than a few hours ago.

A few hours ago, when the Viscount was alive and moderately well, and things were as simple as maintaining sobriety rather than participating in an active murder investigation. Rumbling thunder seemed to voice her mood exactly. 

The Captain was pacing in front of them, a slight twitch to her brow, her jaw set tight. As the Viscount’s personal guard, she had assumed authority in presiding over the investigation of his death. It should have been a good thing that Helena was a friend. However, as Aveline’s green eyes sneered down her nose at the people she typically called her companions, she got the distinct impression that everyone was a suspect. 

Squashed between Merrill and Anders on the couches they had been delegated to, Helena watched with wide eyes as Aveline came to a stop in front of her. She was spared a moment of scrutiny before the redhead looked away, a flash of lightning through the window intensifying her angry expression.

“Here are the facts. Viscount Dumar arrived at this dinner in perfect health. I ensured it myself,” her eyes scanned the group, lingering on Isabela before moving to Varric. “Now, after appearing to choke on nothing, he lies here,” she slammed her fist on the table and gestured to the body flat on the ground, “dead!” Out of the corner of her eye, Helena saw Lady Parks jump. She had propped herself against the wall, twisting her thumbs. In an instant, they made eye contact before her sterling blue scurried away to the carpet in front of her.

_How odd._

Straight as a lamppost, Aveline turned her back towards them. It appeared she was planning on continuing this little investigation.

“Seneschal,” she addressed.

The redhead had been knelt in the plush carpet, guarding Dumar’s body against any accidental disruptions. As he rose, Helena saw he was carrying the goblet Dumar had been drinking from, a stain on the rim where his lips had been. It been left on the ground amidst the chaos. The delicate thing was offered to Aveline, along with a grim nod as she examined its contents. With yet another accusatory glare, she turned around, scanning the eyes of the crowd. From beside her, Helena felt Anders shudder.

“The residue left on Dumar's drink indicates that he's been poisoned.”

A gasp left Merrill’s mouth as Helena forced her lips into a tight line. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and Helena couldn’t fight the urge to break it, her fists clenching as she spoke up.

“Do you intend to keep us here like prisoners, Aveline?” 

Green eyes zeroed in on her, hungry for answers. Helena held her ground, frozen in place, while her jaw clenched and eyebrows narrowed. A beat passed as their stare off raged, Aveline’s painted lips twitching and her frown faltering. In an instant, it returned, and she pinched her temples as the steady pace began again. Left, right, left. A guardsman’s march.

“I care for all of you, truly. I’ve come to think of us as close friends,” she paused, before straightening her shoulders further, “but my duty comes first. As I am the ranking authority, I will be leading the investigation into the murder. Seneschal Bran, I need you to ride into the city and retrieve my guards. We’ll require more hands to apprehend anyone who disobeys.” 

Helena felt like her ears were ringing as she watched Bran nod and duck out of the parlor. A murder investigation? At Varric’s dinner party? Did that mean...

“From now on, everyone in this house is a suspect. You will all be confined to rooms until further notice. I’m assuming Varric has enough to house you?”

“I-- of course I do, but--”

She raised a hand, silencing him further.

“Then it’s settled. Go, now, before I have to do something you don’t want me to do.”

After ascending to the second floor, it became obvious there weren’t enough rooms for everyone to have their own, resulting in the formation of pairs. Varric nudged Anders off to the room furthest down the hall; Isabela, looping her arms around Merrill and Helena. Their progress was halted by Aveline, her glare nasty enough to cut metal.

“Two to a room. No exceptions. Merrill will bunk with me.”

Any protests Isabela had thought to bring to fruition were silenced by Helena’s tightened grip around her arm. She was able to drag them away without consequence, throwing an apologetic look back in Merrill’s direction. The pair came to a stop outside the first guest room door, Isabela struggling against the sticky knob. As a string of Rivain curses whisked by her ears, Helena found herself staring down the hall where Sebastian and Fenris appeared to have partnered up one door down. While Isabela continued to abuse the door, theirs opened with relative ease.

She had already meant to turn away but her eyes were once again lost in forest green, as Fenris caught her gaze. For what would likely be the final time that night, he sent her a small smile, sweet against his umber skin, before disappearing into the room after the archer.

Stunned, Helena stared after the spot he had been, as Isabela finally opened the door and pulled her into the darkened room.

**Author's Note:**

> HELLOO I hope you enjoyed part 1 of my CLUE AU ! Thank you for reading, comments and kudos are love, and I hope you will return for the upcoming part 2... when the real drama begins.


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